D’un tratto gridò
che non era il destino se il mondo soffriva,
se la luce del sole strappava bestemmie:
era l’uomo, colpevole. Almeno potercene andare,
far la libera fame, rispondere no
a una vita che adopera amore e pietà,
la famiglia, il pezzetto di terra, a legarci le mani.
Suddenly he shouted that it wasn’t fate
that made the world suffer,
that made men curse the light
and the day they were born.
The trouble was man, it was man’s doing.
At least we could pull out,
we could starve to death in freedom, and say No
to a life that makes use of love and family and pity
and a little plot of land to tie us together,
and shackle our hands.
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